The Deserter
by Pacacapa
Summary: Sequel to "The Enforcer." After his encounter with the Leverage Team, there is no doubt in Eliot's mind that he fully controlled the situation. What he failed to realize was that victory or not, you don't walk away from Nate Ford unchanged. AU. Major spoilers through the end of Season Three.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Deserter

Author: Pacacapa

Rating: T

Genre: Drama, angst

Length: 8,200

Summary: Sequel to "The Enforcer." After his encounter with the Leverage Team, there is no doubt in Eliot's mind that he fully controlled the situation. What he failed to realize was that victory or not, you don't walk away from Nate Ford unchanged. AU. Major spoilers through the end of Season Three.

Disclaimer: I do not own Leverage or any of its characters; I'm just borrowing them for fun and no profit.

AN: I thought "The Enforcer" was dark… but this is _much_ worse. Proceed at your own risk.

* * *

The soothing rumble of the pickup truck rolled over Eliot's ears as he sat parked in a grassy field just two minutes away from Moreau's mansion. He had just gotten back to San Lorenzo after that job with Nate Ford, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to a meeting with his boss. He liked Damien, really he did. They were actually pretty good friends, and there was a lot of trust between them. Much more than Eliot had found in a long time.

Which made this decision so much harder.

If Eliot had been working for anyone else, he would have quit the instant the $32 million had hit his account. After all, even hitters had dreams, and Eliot would really appreciate a six month vacation to tour some of the nicer parts of the world and enjoy their food. He'd spent more time than he cared to remember in the forests, run-down back alleys, prisons, and warlord fortresses in virtually every country in Asia, the Middle East, South America, and Europe. Now that he had cash on his hands, he could actually appreciate some of the exotic locations he had passed through.

But deep down, he knew he was still relatively young, definitely too young to retire. There was only so much happiness to be found traveling the world without purpose. Not that Eliot considered himself a very happy person, but all things considered, he was pretty much content. He had to go through far more than his fair share of pain and struggles to get to where he was, so why jeopardize it now on a whim?

For now, he would stick with Damien and keep the money as a backup plan. Or retirement fund. Or really anything he might need if he ever _did_ decide to leave Damien.

Eliot shifted the truck back into drive and pulled back onto the newly paved road. He'd be a little late for his meeting now, but he had needed the time to think. Damien would forgive him - he knew Eliot was always punctual so one slip up wouldn't be a problem - but now he would have to deal with Chapman's griping.

So what if Eliot got special treatment? He was reliable and had a nearly flawless record - something Chapman hadn't managed to achieve yet. Sure, Eliot had become friends with Damien during his time in Croatia, but he had seen Damien go so far as to execute former friends who displeased him, so Eliot didn't maintain any illusions about special treatment. Any favor he had from Damien came entirely because he was consistently the best enforcer Damien had ever employed.

Chapman liked to forget that. Eliot liked to remind him. And the other senior officers in Damien's employ saw them both as eager, untested dogs yapping for their master's attention.

As his truck rolled unimpeded through the gate, the guards all stiffened slightly and fell silent. Eliot mostly ignored them, lost in his own thoughts.

Yeah, those self-important "businessmen" were the one thing he honestly hated about working for Moreau. He could only stand so much of their condescension. He was one of the most feared enforcers in San Lorenzo - and the world, for that matter - and yet they treated him like their errand boy. Damien alone seemed to appreciate all of the blood and sweat he put into this job, and that was why Eliot avoided official meetings like the plague. Damien was usually pretty sympathetic to his dislike of meetings - "understanding Eliot's need to be hands on" or something - but today was a special case. The unexpected demise of Farrell meant Eliot would have to give a full report before Damien and all the senior officers.

Eliot pulled the truck into his parking place and slammed the door, not bothering to lock it. If someone touched his truck, there would be blood, and everyone knew it, so he didn't have to worry about anything happening while he was gone.

As he approached the grand double doors of Damien's villa, the soldiers standing by pulled them open and stood at attention. Eliot made his way through the house to the grand meeting room, which already had voices filtering out of it. Without ceremony, he pulled the door open and strode over to his seat.

Gomez, a high-ranking San Lorenzan official, and Allen, a UK-based smuggler, seemed to be engaged in yet another argument. Four other officials showed varying degrees of interest, but Damien seemed intent on listening. Chapman, Vitale, and a couple of the other enforcers who were in the country had also gathered.

Chapman, unsurprisingly, was the first to notice Eliot's entrance. "Looks like the high and mighty Eliot Spencer finally deigns to show up."

"Shut up." He took his seat at the table, just two chairs down from Moreau.

"Ooh, touchy. Ticked off that Farrell managed to hide his betrayal from you for that long?"

"Drop it, Chapman." Vitale was in charge of keeping San Lorenzo's crime regulated and beneficial to Moreau, and Chapman usually got called in to support him when there was trouble. Eliot didn't envy Vitale having to put up with Chapman day in and day out, but one of the perks of being the best meant he got to keep the international contracts to himself. "We've heard enough of your crap already."

Chapman ignored Vitale to focus his insults on Eliot. "You think you're so special. You wouldn't get away with half of these stunts if you had _earned_ your top spot."

Eliot was in no mood for this today. "Just keep talking and see what happens." But he fixed his eyes on Damien, silently begging the man to get on with the meeting.

"You didn't even recover the money, did you—"

"That's enough." Damien finally pinned Chapman with a glare that shut him up. "It's a good thing Eliot was there to make an example of Farrell before he managed to disappear."

The rest of the room gradually quieted down, and Eliot knew it was his turn to give the report. Naturally, he left out all mention of Ford and his team, and what had happened to the money. Once he was done, Damien nodded his acceptance.

"Very good. You probably deserve some time off after that, but I've got another job lined up that needs taken care of this afternoon."

Half of Eliot wanted to delegate this to Vitale or one of the other enforcers, but maybe more work would help him get back into a routine. Get his mind off of all the options available to him and keep from making an impulsive mistake. "What needs done?"

"Kyle Jordan - you remember him, the chemical engineer downtown? He's been holding out on me, diluting the shipments but still demanding the same amount of pay. Make an example of him."

"Yes sir." With one last nasty glare for Chapman, Eliot sauntered out of the room. He was tense with frustration and he _needed_ to get out of there, but there was no way he would let anyone else know. Once the door finally provided a barrier between the probing stares of the other enforcers and senior officials, Eliot allowed himself to relax. He always felt better around the soldiers, fighting men who were willing to do their own work and get things done. They had the toughness to back up their pride and a healthy dose of respect for anyone who deserved it. In short, they were _real_ people who knew their places, worked hard, and saw results.

Men like Eliot.

The guards at the door nodded to him on his way out and he nodded back. Once he got back to his truck, he turned the country radio station up as loud as his ears could handle and didn't bother with his seatbelt before pulling out of the small parking lot and onto the road back to the city.

Hopefully some work would help restore normalcy.

* * *

An hour or so before sunset, Eliot shifted just slightly to get a pesky little branch out of a now-tender spot on his back. He honestly hated neighborhoods because there were few places to hide, and that was why he had ended up lying on his stomach under a painful row of short bushes with prickly leaves. Give him some reclusive warlord's compound or really _anything_ out in the wilderness and he was a ghost, but neighborhoods? Ugh. They were why he stuck to international jobs. Terminating Damien's cast-offs in San Lorenzo was Chapman's job.

Unfortunately, this time, Damien wanted it done _right._ And that meant he needed Eliot to handle it. Chapman enjoyed this work a little too much and tended to be very messy, leaving Vitale to handle all the cleanup. Witnesses, evidence, and so on. Besides, he liked brute force and big shows of violence.

Eliot's cool professionalism was much better for handling delicate matters, and besides, everyone knew Eliot was more dangerous anyway. Damien helped Eliot build that reputation specifically so the enforcer could use that to Damien's benefit. Too bad Chapman had been too stupid to take advice…

When the sleek black car pulled into the driveway across the street, Eliot stiffened. As expected, Jordan was alone as he made his way into the two-story, obviously upper class home. Thirty seconds later, Eliot low-crawled out from under the bushes, wincing as the leaves grabbed his shirt and scratched his skin. After taking a minute to brush the dirt and miscellaneous flora off of himself, Eliot marched purposefully up to the front door. A quick peek through the glass told him no one was in sight.

Eliot set to work picking the lock. This was another reason he didn't like jobs in a city - locks weren't his strong suit. No self-respecting thief would be unable to handle them, but he would much rather take a more direct route. Through one of the many glass windows, for example. Unfortunately, that would not be appropriate for this job. The lock finally clicked open and Eliot slipped inside, carefully checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching.

He had memorized the blueprints on the way over, so he made his way toward what he knew would be Jordan's study. The marble floors desperately wanted to squeak under Eliot's boots, but he took great care to keep that from happening. Another problem with jobs like this.

Once he made it to the room, he cracked a smile. There was Jordan, still in his professional suit and tie, unloading his briefcase onto the desk. He wouldn't be a problem at all. Silently, Eliot opened the door and stepped in.

It took the other man a minute to notice him. As soon as he did, the papers slid right out of his hands and fluttered to the floor, forgotten. Eliot could see the absolute terror in his eyes. "Mr. Spencer… what… what do you want with me?"

"I think you know."

He stepped backward, but tripped over the briefcase. His hands fidgeted with anything in reach and his eyes never left Eliot… or more specifically, they never left the hand now crawling toward the knife at his belt. "No, wait! I can explain… I'll pay it all back, I swear!"

Eliot drew his knife, slowly and deliberately. He always liked it when targets tried to talk him out of what he was there to do, as if he hadn't heard every excuse a dozen times.

"Whatever Moreau wants, he has it! Please, my wife and kids…"

"You won't have to worry about them either." Eliot took a menacing step forward, now within reaching distance of the frantic man in front of him.

His mouth fell open as he realized what Eliot was implying. "Leave them alone, you monster!" That stung more than it should have, but an instant later, Jordan inhaled deeply and Eliot realized he was about to scream a warning. Almost instantly the knife was in his throat while Eliot's empty hand clamped over Jordan's mouth. Jordan thrashed weakly, but Eliot held him still until all life was gone from his eyes.

After wiping the blade clean on Jordan's no-longer-perfect suit, Eliot slipped back out of the study. The wife, he knew, was doing laundry at the moment. He had heard her when he came in. As he approached the laundry room, Eliot could hear her singing as if there were music playing. A few more steps and he saw why - she was wearing headphones and was completely oblivious.

She was pretty, and obviously significantly younger than her husband. Her back faced him now as she lifted each article of clothing in turn and folded it up, carefully placing it on one of the several piles she had formed. Little girl shirts went in one pile, pajamas in another, and then middle-school boy clothes in another pile. She seemed genuinely happy, humming along to an upbeat tune and swaying a little as she worked.

Eliot snapped his attention back to the task at hand. He knew all too well that if he let himself humanize his targets, he wouldn't be able to get the job done.

Marks, not people.

 _Not people._

He only wished she didn't have such long blonde hair cascading down her back.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Eliot covered her mouth and ran his blade cleanly across her throat. As quickly as he had struck, he slipped away. Watching her die right now just left a sick feeling in his stomach. He had a sinking feeling he would have a hard time finishing this job…

Eliot took a deep breath to calm himself before moving on. Two more targets, and they could be anywhere in the house, or out in the backyard for that matter. He sincerely hoped that wasn't the case; he was ready to be done and get out of here. Something just felt really _wrong_ today, and he couldn't out his finger on it.

Suddenly, voices echoed from somewhere down a hall to his right. "Betcha can't catch me, Noah!" A little girl, no more than six years old, sprinted into view.

"Oh yeah I can!" A boy of about ten followed right on her heels, but stopped abruptly when he spotted Eliot. "Carrie, come back here."

"Who's that?"

"Just get behind me." His eyes were wide but his tone was even. Noah moved his sister behind him and stared up at Eliot. "Where's mom?"

Carrie peeked her head out from behind her brother, and her eyes were equally wide. Her knuckles squeezed the life out of her brother's shoulders.

" _He's hurting kids."_

As soon as Nate had said those words, Eliot had known Farrell had to go down. But now what was he doing? _Exactly_ the same thing. Here he stood, about to murder two innocent children because their father was stupid enough to cheat Damien.

Sure, Eliot knew Damien's policy was to kill the entire family for an offense. It was a very effective threat that kept his underlings in line. But since Eliot spent most of his time out of the country, it had actually been over a year since he had been in the position of having to exterminate a whole family. The thought of it now made his stomach flip, thanks in no small part to Nate Ford.

" _You're a monster,"_ his mind told him again. Why did that phrase have so much power over him now? It wasn't like he had changed at all. He had helped Ford purely to further his own ends. He wanted the money. Keeping Farrell from hurting kids was just a bonus…

Who was he kidding? He had known he would help the instant those words had been spoken. The money was just so he could retain some illusion of coldheartedness in front of Ford's team. And the fact that he had thought of it as an _illusion_ should have triggered a warning somewhere in his head: he was letting himself start to care about who was hurt because of his actions. Ford had seen right through him and manipulated him into killing Farrell and letting Ford's people go.

Eliot's hand tightened around his blade and he steeled his nerves. Ford could not control him like this. He was _dangerous_ and _deadly_ and _one of the most feared men on the planet._ He wouldn't shy away from doing his job, no matter how unpleasant it was. He couldn't, or he would lose all respect.

If he let these two live, he might as well walk away right now.

Eliot closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Back in his apartment, Eliot sat with his head in his hands, breathing heavily. He had scrubbed them until they were raw but he knew they would never feel clean again. Why was this happening to him now? He had worked for Damien for years and was only _now_ having trouble with it? Had Ford done more damage than Eliot had initially realized?

And even when Eliot had managed to force his way through Ford's voice in his head and finish the job, he knew he would never be the same. Something had snapped in him. And it was Ford's fault that he would rather spend a month in a North Korean prison than kill another innocent person.

In fact, it was Ford's fault that "innocent" was even in his vocabulary. Until now, there were only targets.

Had domestic jobs always been this hard? Maybe that was why Chapman was so unhinged. You _had_ to be a sociopath to put up with that all the time. Eliot had once prided himself on his ability to do any job asked of him. Was he slipping? Was he going soft, taking all the easy jobs abroad?

Maybe more work would help him readjust, silence this infernal voice in his head and weight like lead in his stomach. He snatched up the phone he had abandoned on the table beside him and pressed the speed dial button.

Damien picked up on the second ring. "Eliot, is something wrong? Is the job done?"

"Yeah, it's done. What else d'ya got?"

"Industrious. I like that about you, Spencer. No matter where you go, you make things _happen._ Let's see…" He fell silent for a minute. "Miguel Garcia - you know him, right? The politician? - Well, he has announced his intention to run against President Ribera this year. You have not had the pleasure of assassinating a political rival yet, so if you wish, the job is yours."

"Done."

"Good, good! I expect to hear good news in the next day or so." The _click_ signified the end of the conversation.

Eliot did in fact know Garcia. Even better, he knew Garcia liked to sample alcoholic beverages from all around the city, and would often visit a bar on request to improve its notoriety.

About three years ago, Eliot had "acquired" a bar to use whenever he needed it. The owner and all of the employees knew to let him do whatever he needed to do, no questions asked. All he needed to do was have the bar request a visit from Garcia, and there was a good chance Garcia would come. Once he was out in public with just eight or so guards to protect him, he would be an easy hit for someone like Eliot.

Now he just needed to set the scene…

* * *

Eliot stared down at the mug of beer in front of him, untouched. He had been here for the last ten minutes, establishing his cover as a civilian trying to drown his troubles. The scenario was perfect: plenty of reflective surfaces so he could see the room, even though his back was to it. Not too many other people to get in the way, and the bartender had been nice enough to set up the bar this morning to allow Eliot an easy path to the door.

At first, Eliot thought he might have trouble getting into character, but with so much time to ponder recent events, that hadn't been hard at all. He could have sworn he saw the faces of Noah and Carrie Jordan in the foam spilling over the side of his mug.

He hadn't seen the wife's face, but his mind was drawing unwanted parallels between her and Parker, especially the Parker bound to a chair with the protective hacker hovering over her shoulder. Eliot would never forget the way Hardison had faced him and demanded he let Parker go. Not a hint of cowardice, and Eliot knew that wasn't just because Hardison wasn't scared. That kid had been terrified out of his wits.

No. Hardison had been willing to talk back to him because he cared about Parker.

Eliot didn't care about anyone.

It had always been an asset - not being attached to anyone or anything, able to do whatever needed done because he had nothing to lose. Now he was starting to feel like some sort of vampire, feeding on the lives of others but not doing anything with his own.

A barstool beside him squeaked against the ground and Eliot snapped to attention just in time to see a grey-haired man in business casual clothes settle in at the bar with just a single stool between them.

Their eyes met and Garcia smiled gently. "Lost in thought?"

Eliot gave a small smile and dropped his eyes back to his still untouched beer. "Yeah."

"You have the look of someone haunted by misery."

Eliot met his eyes again and paused for a minute. Finally, he gave in. "Yeah. I, uh, I messed up. Big time."

Garcia nodded understandingly. "You know, people aren't defined by their mistakes. What defines them is how they respond when things go wrong." His eyes twinkled with kindness. "You might be surprised how well things can be fixed by an apology and a sincere desire to change."

"There's no forgiveness for what I've done."

He shrugged. "That may be true, but you're… what, 30? 35? You still have a lot of life left ahead of you. If you let yourself be defined by the mistakes in your past, you will never be able to move forward and do anything good. All you have to do is take that first step toward change." Garcia put a hand on Eliot's shoulder and smiled warmly. "Take it from someone who knows."

Eliot held his eyes for a long moment. Why did his marks have to torment him like this? First innocent children and now a wise, kindly old man. Eliot felt like a storm was brewing inside him, tearing him in every direction and leaving him with no lifeline in the midst of a raging sea.

At one hand was his dagger, scrubbed clean from yesterday but still stained with blood that never should have been shed. At the other hand was this man, a complete stranger who seemed to care enough to try to direct him toward a happier life.

Eliot felt his resolve melt.

He stared at Garcia for almost too long before nodding solemnly and standing up. He left a bill beside his still-full beer and made his way out of the bar. Garcia's guards eyed him as he left, but Eliot didn't care - he had done nothing wrong. They would probably never know what terror had just left them in peace.

Ten years of begging had fallen on deaf ears, but ten minutes of understanding had broken through all of Eliot's defenses. Eliot found it miserably ironic that an old man and some children had managed to cripple him far worse than any professional torturer ever could.

The big question now was what in the world he was supposed to do with himself.

* * *

Back in the safety of his truck, Eliot let out a shaky breath and let his head fall against the headrest. His brain almost didn't want to process what he had just done, but he forced it to focus since he needed to make a decision and make it quickly.

Even now, he could go back in and finish the job. If he became too soft to instill fear in others, what would become of him? Who would he be, and what would he do? What would be the point of… anything? With Damien, he knew he was valuable and effective. People respected him and he was good at what he did.

And he was a monster.

But he could live with that, right? He had so far. He could just walk right back inside… it wouldn't be hard, pretend to thank him and then finish the hit…

Who was he kidding? There was no way he could bring himself to do it. Not after what he had done to those kids.

There was no going back to Damien, that was for certain. Eliot had a $32 million safety net, but he was back to the problem of having nothing to do with his life. He certainly wasn't going to go back to wet-work. Apparently Ford had managed to destroy his stomach for it. What else was there? He had spent so long working for Damien that he had barely bothered to consider any other options.

Well, at least he could start where he knew he could make some progress. Damien knew where Eliot lived, so that was the first thing that needed to be dealt with. It was nearing night, so Eliot would need to sleep before going on the run, but he obviously couldn't sleep at home or any of his other regular haunts.

He cranked the truck into drive and headed toward his apartment. Once he got there, he would just have a few minutes to grab what he needed and get out. As soon as Damien heard he had let Garcia live - because the bartender would certainly let him know - Eliot would have a target on his back. He needed to be settled before then.

On second thought, he better not go home tonight. Even just a few minutes wasted could mean the difference between capture and disappearing. He would probably swing around later, just before his flight out, but only after he had figured out Damien's plan for tracking him down.

Eliot growled as he slowed down for a stop sign. As much as it annoyed him, he knew the best way to draw attention to yourself was to drive recklessly. If he wanted to stay under the radar, he would need to drive calmly, as if he had nothing to hide.

Finally, he pulled up to his safe house. It was barely more than a two-room hovel, but it was the only one he had managed to keep hidden from Damien. At the very least, it would be a good place to spend the night as he planned his way out of the country the next morning.

The real question at this point was where to go.

* * *

Eliot woke very early. He had only slept for a few hours but he knew Damien would have caught on to the situation by now. The next order of business was to slip into his apartment and retrieve anything useful from there before heading to the airport.

As he carefully made his way across the city - deliberately not using his truck since that would easily be identified - Eliot kept an eye out for Damien's other enforcers. Thankfully, he hadn't trained Damien's domestic security force. He knew these guys would be pretty easy to spot and subdue.

After making it through the city without incident, Eliot arrived at his apartment… only to find the whole building swarmed by police cars. What in the world?

He pulled his emergency suit jacket out of his backpack and climbed into it before tucking his long hair up into a fedora and putting on his glasses. One glance in the mirror told him he was sufficiently disguised to get to his hallway. The real question was how many cops were _in_ that hallway and his apartment. He really didn't want to have to fight his way out of this if he could help it, since it would leave a huge mess and ensure that he had both Damien's men _and_ the cops chasing him as he tried to slip away.

Walking briskly and confidently, he approached the side door of the building. He had picked a large apartment building because it had several routes up and down. It was coming in handy now, since the police seemed concentrated around the main elevators and stairs. Eliot took the back stairwell.

When he reached the second floor, he took the long way around toward his apartment, taking note of how many cops there were and where they were. Sure enough, most of them were congregated around his apartment. Eliot meandered by, pretending to be a curious resident. As he approached the door, he didn't slow, but made a point to glance inside.

The sight stopped his heart cold.

His plan to just keep walking was completely forgotten in the horror of the sight on his living room floor. A pool of red didn't quite disguise the flash of grey hair, and the kindly face Eliot had spared not twenty-four hours before was marred nearly beyond recognition. Eliot's trained eyes spotted the electrical burns on Garcia's bare chest as well as the cuts and bruises on Garcia's wrists.

To make matters worse, Eliot's own knives were scattered across the floor and the whole apartment was trashed. This wasn't something cops would do — whoever had killed Garcia had sent a very clear message to Eliot too.

"Sir, this is a crime scene. I'm going to have to ask you to move on."

Eliot nodded numbly, but didn't look at the cop who placed a hand on Eliot's shoulder. As he resumed his walk down the hall, his eyes remained glued to Garcia as long as possible.

When he reached the opposite side of the floor and there were no police in sight, he took the stairs right back down. The numbness was starting to fade, and in its place was a slow burning fury in Eliot's stomach. He would recognize Chapman's handiwork anywhere, and this was particularly glaring. He didn't just kill Garcia — he tortured the man to death in Eliot's own apartment, _with Eliot's own equipment._ The fact that Eliot had been framed for the atrocious crime was just a bonus.

Chapman was sending a message, and Eliot heard it loud and clear. If he tried to run, Damien's men would hound him until he died, probably an early death at their hands. No, Eliot should have seen it earlier. Shame on him for trying to run away in the first place. He needed to send a message of his own.

He was going to look Damien in the eye and tell him he was done.

* * *

TBC...

A/N: I'm so sorry, I know several of you wanted Eliot to make the right choice, but the story was already complete and I felt he wouldn't walk away after a single incident. He needed one more push to get him to leave for good. I hope it wasn't too horrible to endure. Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

In the familiar alley behind his apartment building, Eliot paused to plan his strategy. Thanks to his own paranoia, he was close enough to walk to Damien's villa. It would definitely serve him well now. He had identified and used four main routes, but none of them would safe at the moment. They were too direct, and Damien had enough men to block any approach to his home. Eliot would have to take the secret approach. It would add extra time, but it would be the safest.

Eliot shed the suit and hat, knowing those would make him stand out. With one last glance to ensure no cops were around, he ducked into one of the darkest, dingiest back alleys in San Lorenzo. He would head straight north to avoid the drug neighborhood before winding through the city to avoid any of his usual routes.

All around him, the buildings creaked with age. Every other street light was broken, and piles of empty beer cans filled the gutters running down the side of the narrow street. Every once in a while, Eliot would hear noises coming out of a house, but he ignored them and maintained his brisk walk through. A couple of dirty children with disheveled hair peeked through a window, and Eliot immediately tore his eyes away. He most certainly didn't need _that_ reminder.

Just before he rounded a corner, he heard low voices up ahead. A quick analysis told him they were all inside, so he should be able to stay mostly unnoticed. He stepped into the street and his guess was confirmed. Nevertheless, he picked up his pace.

As he neared the end of the street, a door behind him creaked open and rowdy laughter spilled into the street. Eliot immediately turned to see who it was.

"Yo, Spencer!" The inebriated slur was unmistakable: Brandon, the 'town drunk' of the hitter community. "Where ya goin' so fas', come play a game with us!"

Eliot groaned, but another man stepped out onto the porch. "Spencer, you say?" Frank's eyes landed on Eliot and darkened with a cruel smile. "Yeah, get over here. Don't just walk by and not even say 'hi.'" Within a couple of seconds, four of them had gathered on the porch, one still holding a handful of playing cards. Frank started walking toward Eliot. "Moreau put a bounty on your head, you know. I'm curious: why would he be after his golden boy?"

Eliot tensed slightly. If he tried to run, he'd draw way too much attention and these guys would get more to follow him. He had to take them out now. He held his ground as Frank approached, schooling his face and body into an emotionless mask.

The first punch came quickly but Eliot's reflexes were honed to perfection. He shifted just a little to the side, grabbed the wrist as it went by, and elbowed Frank in the face while pulling the wrist away from him. Immediately, Frank dropped to the ground.

Two of the remaining hitters charged Eliot. He sidestepped one and lunged into the other, throwing him into a wall. The punch to the guy's face slammed his head so hard against the wood that the wood splintered.

Another punch flew overhead as Eliot ducked. Eliot threw his elbow backward, right into the man's solar plexus. The satisfying gasp of air told him he'd hit the spot.

As he straightened, he sent a threatening glare toward Brandon, who threw up his hands and ran away. Eliot slammed his foot into the last conscious goon for good measure.

Satisfied that the goons at his feet were out cold, Eliot quickly exited the alley and slipped into a large crowd. This street was lined on both sides by mom-and-pop shops, and at this time of day on a weekend, it was a popular tourist location.

Eliot swiped a baseball cap off of one of the displays as he walked by. He tied his hair back and pulled the cap over his head, glancing around to make sure he wasn't being followed. He was using the crowd to stay unnoticed, so he knew anyone following him would have the same advantage.

A couple of minutes later, Eliot's instincts warned him he had a tail. He stepped off of the street and onto a sidewalk, pretending to study a display in a window but really surveying the area behind him. Fifty-three people clustered in his nearby vicinity, but he didn't spot anything abnormal or threatening about any of them.

Frowning just slightly, he turned and continued on his way, paying careful attention to the noises around him. Whoever might be following him would most certainly stay out of sight, probably behind or above him. Eliot would be able to hear something suspicious before he could see it.

As he continued to make his way down the street, he couldn't tune out the feeling of being followed. Others might call him paranoid, but he trusted his gut. It had saved him far too many times to count, and probably a lot more than Eliot could even guess.

He counted the people around him again, this time based on sounds. There were thirty-eight distinct sets of footsteps, eighteen conversations between people standing still, and doors opening and closing all the time. Unfortunately for him, they were all concentrated in the expected area. There were no sounds behind the buildings, on the rooftops, or in other strange places.

That didn't mean he was safe, though. He knew _he_ could move silently or use other sounds to cover his own. Whoever was following him either didn't exist or was a professional. Eliot couldn't take the chance and let his guard down.

Finally, he reached the spot where he would need to turn off of the busy street. That many people provided a layer of protection, but Damien lived a little outside the city. Eliot wouldn't be able to avoid some mostly deserted streets. Pausing one last time to glance in a store window, Eliot took a deep breath to calm his nerves and stepped into the empty street.

This street was much nicer than most. Wealthy homes with spacious yards appeared at regular intervals, expensive cars rested in every driveway, and giant trees provided shade for the entire street. It was uncomfortably similar to Jordan's neighborhood, where this whole mess started. Why had he agreed to that job in the first place? He should have just stuck with the international work. Look where he was now — about to abandon one of the few people he trusted and quit the best job he ever had, all because Nate Ford got in his head.

Eliot could feel his body tensing as his temper rose, so he made a conscious effort to relax. He was already out of place and conspicuous, so there was no need to compound the problem by looking suspicious.

Suddenly, a glint in a car window up ahead caught his attention. In the split second it took to recognize the reflection of a scope, he dove to the side.

While moving, what felt like a high-speed baseball slammed into Eliot's left side and knocked him off course. He fell out of his controlled dive straight onto the pavement. Immediately, he lurched to his feet and bolted for cover.

This wasn't his first time getting shot, so he knew the pain wouldn't be too bad until he actually paid attention to it. The bullet had gone all the way through the edge of his shoulder, missing everything important. Eliot could feel the burning hot trail of the bullet through his flesh, and it still felt like a knife was stabbing into the entry wound, but the numbness that claimed his shoulder and upper left arm was what scared him the most.

It was just the result of the impact, he knew, but it would impair his ability to fight back. Not to mention the blood that was pouring out.

There hadn't been a sound but Eliot knew where the sniper was based on the reflection he had seen. Using the trees and cars for cover, he made his way toward one of the houses as quickly as possible. The blinds were drawn on a single window in a large, two-story house. Eliot could just see a tiny circle where the glass had been removed, so the shooter could avoid breaking the glass.

He couldn't see the gun now, but if this guy had been sent by Damien to take Eliot out, he was one of the best.

Eliot took a minute to throw off his outer shirt and tie it tightly around the wound in his shoulder. It wouldn't do for him to bleed out while he was trying to take down a sniper. Besides, the blood loss would weaken him. That would be disaster.

Eliot dashed across the final yard and reached the front door of the house containing the sniper. His left arm was growing less usable by the second, so he took one of his throwing knives in his right hand and kicked the door open. The sniper knew he was coming anyway so subtlety wouldn't make any difference.

A cursory glance told him the shooter wasn't in eyeshot, so Eliot stormed up the stairs. Just before he could see the second floor, he paused and readied his knife.

Cautiously now, he edged along the railing. If the sniper saw him first, that was it. He had no idea what he was walking into. As he progressed slowly up the stairs, he scanned the landing area. There didn't seem to be anyone obvious waiting for him, but no good sniper would reveal himself like that. A door just slightly ajar would be the scariest thing he could see once he reached the landing.

Ever so slowly, he finally stepped off of the staircase and onto the main floor. He moved silently to the first room on his right. The door was closed, so he very slowly opened it, trying to stay as quiet as possible. A cursory glance told him this was not the room he was looking for.

With each subsequent room, Eliot felt his chest tighten a little more. The sniper had to be here. The question was whether Eliot would be able to take him out before the blood loss or another bullet put him down.

Eliot slowly opened another door, and this time he knew he had found the sniper's room. The blinds were closed, and the circle of missing glass was very evident. There were even marks in the carpet where the sniper had obviously been sitting for a long time. But… no shooter. It was empty.

Eliot wanted to be relieved, but he knew the sniper was still out there and still looking for his blood. This wouldn't be over until one of them wasn't breathing.

Clutching his knife tighter in his right hand as his knees threatened to buckle under him, Eliot abandoned stealth and charged right back down the stairs toward the door. When he burst out onto the street, he caught sight of the sniper just 40 feet ahead of him, and running. The heavy sniper rifle in his hand slowed him, but Eliot knew it would waste too much energy and effort to chase him down.

He had one option.

Biting back the pain of moving his left shoulder, Eliot drew his right hand back. An instant later, he let the knife fly with all the power he could give it.

Everything seemed to slow just a little as the projectile honed in on its target. As soon as it connected, life flashed back to normal speed with a jolt, and Eliot watched the sniper fall forward with a handle sticking out of his lower back. Another knife followed this first, this time much more powerful and on-target as Eliot closed the distance. It lodged between the shoulder blades.

Eliot didn't think the sniper would be getting up again, but just for good measure, he stabbed the man in the neck. Repeatedly.

Unfortunately, he didn't have long to celebrate his victory. Using the knife still in his hand, he sliced off a few long strips of the sniper's shirt. Clumsily, he wadded some of the fabric into a ball and pressed it on top of the wound. After that, he took care to bind it down tightly.

With one more cursory survey of his surroundings, Eliot resumed his journey. He needed to reach Moreau before any other unwanted confrontations cropped up.

A few minutes later, the familiar wrought iron gates came into view. Eliot marched right up to them, glaring murderously at the staring guards. Suddenly, one reacted, jerking himself out of his reverie to open the gate for the fuming hitter.

Eliot stormed toward the front door, blowing by all the guards he passed and opening the front door himself. He was in no mood to stand around and be gawked at.

When Eliot came upon the intricately carved wooden door to Damien's office, he paused for just an instant before throwing it open.

* * *

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay, I thought I had put up all of the chapters!

* * *

The mild amusement on Damien's face contrasted sharply with the constantly darkening rage on Chapman's. Eliot couldn't help but smirk, just a little. Chapman had underestimated him… again. The idiot would never learn.

"Spencer. How nice of you to drop by." Damien's voice was smooth as silk and dangerous as a blade, the same tone he used on marks and soon-to-be-dead employees. "Saves Chapman here the humiliation of failing to track you down."

Chapman glared even harder - Eliot didn't know that was even possible - but Eliot was not in the mood to join his former friend and boss in poking fun at Chapman's inferiority.

"I quit."

Damien hissed in a breath and cocked his head to the side. "See now, you should have said that last night. Before you blew the job and I had to send Chapman to butcher it, as always. Better yet, before you accepted the job in the first place. Come on, Spencer. This is so out of character for you that I can't help but wonder if I've done you any good by letting you spend so much time away from home."

Eliot crossed his arms and glowered. "I'll pay you back this month's salary, plus whatever blood price you want for Garcia. We can terminate the contract civilly and part ways with no more harm done."

Chapman butted into the conversation. "You can't just do that."

A tiny smile seized Eliot's lips. "See, actually, I can. I'm employed on a monthly basis, with permission to walk away whenever I want. Unlike _someone_ I know, I'm a free and equal partner. He pays be but I'm not his hired muscle - that's what you're for."

Chapman lunged at him, but he sidestepped and brought and elbow down on Chapman's back as he passed by. Returning his attention to Damien as if Chapman were simply an annoying nuisance, Eliot said, "You know I'll keep your confidentiality."

Moreau looked lost in thought, absentmindedly rubbing his chin. "Yes… yes, I do. Always reliable. Tell you what: I'll forgive this little incident, and all of us - including Chapman - will forget about it. You can keep working for me, and I'll even increase your pay if you want. Let you have whatever jobs you want."

Eliot chuckled. "An hour ago you wanted me dead."

"No, an hour ago I wanted you to realize what a mistake it was to break our contract. It worked, didn't it? And I didn't lose my top enforcer."

He grew solemn. "Actually, you did. I can't stay here, Damien. You have no idea how grateful I am for everything you've done for me, but it's time for me to move on."

"No explanation for an old friend?"

"Things change."

Damien groaned. "Oh, this is really happening then! My worst nightmare! There's nothing I can do to convince you to stay?" When Eliot shook his head, Damien sighed. "Fine, then. If you insist, I will release you from the terms of our agreement."

Eliot nodded his thanks before promptly turning to make his way back out of the room. Chapman, stumbling to his feet, snarled, "You're going pay for everything, Spencer."

Eliot ignored him and just passed on by.

"Eliot." Damien's voice stopped him, but he didn't turn around. "If you ever need work again, just let me know. I can always use someone with your… talents."

As much as he appreciated the offer, Eliot knew that could never happen now. He just kept walking, leaving Damien's office, then villa, then grounds for the last time. He took in all the men he had trained, still dutifully manning their posts as he passed.

Once he hit the open road, he didn't look back.

* * *

Eliot had money. He had connections. He had skills, though how useful those would be to a non-assassin was debatable. He had a reputation, albeit one in tatters. And, unfortunately, it seemed he had a conscience.

Leaving Moreau was the worst decision of his life, but he didn't see any other way out. Now he just needed to find somewhere else to belong, somewhere he could use his skills for something other than wanton destruction and misery.

Eliot glanced at the sign pointing the way to the San Lorenzo airport and realized he needed to decide where to go, and soon. While there were many exotic locations open to a man with his wealth, he wasn't really in the mood for tourism. Besides, he hadn't been stateside in over a decade.

Oklahoma _was_ pretty nice this time of year…

* * *

The End! Well, the end of evil Eliot, anyway. That doesn't mean he doesn't still have a target on his back, courtesy of Nate and the Leverage team. They're out for blood. I'll be finishing this little trilogy in my next story, _The Contractor,_ so keep an eye out!


End file.
